Blocking Out the Sun
by Dud-chan
Summary: As it turns out, lighting the Kiln of the First Flame wasn't all it's cracked up to be. However, the Chosen Undead and a few other 'friends' find themselves thrusted into Remnant! In a world full of Dust, guns, and not nearly as much death as they're used to, how will our favorite undead handle their new home?
1. 1

Coherent thought had long left his mind. The flames had burned that away, along with his skin and any will he once possessed. Nothing but a burnt up husk of a man, pain being the only thing to keep him company in the kiln. His armor had fused to his disgusting, mangled and hollowed flesh, and his weapon lay in a similar state, discarded in the ashes, not that it mattered. He wouldn't be using it.

Every once in a while, he managed to think for a few seconds. During these increasingly rare periods, he often wondered if it was all worth it in the end. Sure, he supposedly saved the world, but for how long? How long would he last as a fuel source? Ah well, what did he care. His friends by now were either all dead, or had given up on him. Not that he blamed him. Without someone to light the kiln, the world was doomed to darkness. But he found himself questioning again and again if that was such a bad thing. If the world was plunged into dark, at least he wouldn't be some tool of the gods. Ah well, it doesn't matter.

He would be here until he either burned up, or until some sorry sap had to take his place.

He did not sleep, did not eat, did not drink. He did nothing but sit and burn, and by the gods he was bored. Even in his semi-vegetative state, he yearned for something to do, something to kill. All he could do in this damn overrated fire pit was kick the ash or reflect on his previous adventures, neither of which exactly appealed to him.

Or he could acknowledge the near constant and all consuming pain of being burned alive.

Another hoarse scream ripped through his charred lungs and throat. Gods, the pain never let up in this horrid place. It wasn't natural, as far as he could tell, and likely had something to do with the kiln. He'd been burned before, more times than he could count, but that felt like nothing compared to the flames of this damned place. It was all that kept him company. He dared to wonder what it would feel like to not be on fire for every second of his life, but he barred such thoughts from his mind. It would do him no good, and he would never leave this place.

"Mmph!" he grunted, before his vision began to fade. It was happening again, not that he really cared. His version of rest was just his mind forcing itself off, to at least ignore the pain for a moment or two.

As everything faded to black, he allowed himself to indulge in his fantasies. Where he could finally Hollow, and be done with this. Where he could take part in the finer, less painful aspects of live and undeath. Where he actually had a damn name! Where he…

Black. Darkness comparable to the Abyss.

With a mighty gasp, the Chosen Undead heaved his whole body up, and his eyes shot wide open. Air, not smoke, flooded his lungs, and he hacked and wheezed at the unfamiliar sensation. His eyes, his poor eyes, were melted beyond belief, along with most, if not all, of his skin. He was a hunk of armor and flesh, but he didn't care.

This wasn't the kiln. By the gods, this wasn't the kiln! Had he cracked and gone Hollow? Was this some grand dream in his battered and delusional mind? Surely, this couldn't be! It simply couldn't!

The ground felt soft and wet, covered in the morning dew. The air felt cool, his skin no longer boiling. The air was crisp and clean, and he could breathe! But he could not see… his tired and aching hands grasped the edges of the mask that had long since lost it's form, and he ripped it from his head, taking both cloth, copper, and skin. He was grateful that no one could see him, and that he could not see himself.

"By Gwyn's beard, man, your face looks horrid!"

With his luck, he could have guessed he wasn't alone. Instead of fear, though, a sense of excitement and elation filled him. He recognized that voice, and even if it had lost it's usual joviality, he was not mistaken. Solaire, Warrior and Adherent of the Sun, stood somewhere to his left, a few feet away. While he couldn't see him, he could tell he was close.

When Solaire rushed over, the Chosen Undead fought off the urge to throw the man off for getting too handsy. He tried to speak, but found that his voice would not cooperate. Then again, he wasn't one for talking, and Solaire knew this. He heard the Sunlight Warrior mutter a few prayers under his breath, and the wondrous and rejuvenating power of miracles filled his system, and he could feel his broken and distorted body mending.

But the fires of the kiln were no ordinary flames, and they would not be so easily vanquished. The wounds did not fully mend themselves, his skin staying crisp and raw in many places. Thankfully, his eyes began to repair themselves, and the light was blinding.

Such sunlight, such majesty! The likes of which he could only dream of! The beautiful orange glow of Anor Londo held only a candle to the magnificent magnitude of this blazing ball of glory! Solaire must be on cloud nine…

Though it was awfully hard to tell from behind that helmet of his.

Finally, Solaire took a step back and gave his friend a look. His armor, forged from the same bronze used by the Giants of Anor Londo, was blackened in many places, and melted in more. He could see patches of skin and bronze, fused by the intense heat of… something. Solaire wasn't quite sure, but he figured it had something to do with the kiln. The Chosen Undead's mask, the mysterious and he daresay humorous Mask of the Father lay in a crumpled and distorted heap, possibly beyond repair. Such a pitiful sight, as it's properties would be sorely missed!

Solaire couldn't tell if there were even rings upon his friend's hands, let alone what they could possibly be! Even their magic blessings must have been utterly incinerated by what he assumed to be the kiln's intense flames. And the poor lad's Zweihander was nowhere to be seen…

This wasn't good. Not good at all! Chosen at least seemed to be more awestruck than crestfallen, at least. The young man's bottomless box was nowhere to be seen, so that left Solaire the only one with a weapon. Well, they could set up camp here for the night, and find out exactly where they were tomorrow. Already, he figured they were far from 'home', judging from how the sun was actually shifting positions in the sky.

A scream ruptured the Warrior of Sunlight from his thoughts. It was a feminine one, filled with terror and desperation. Someone needed help! Jolly co-operation was needed, and by Gwyn's beard he wouldn't abandon those in need, no matter the land he found himself in.

"Stay here, my good friend. I'll go see what the fuss is about! In the meantime, try to, erm, collect yourself." He was confident that his fellow Undead could defend himself, not that death particularly mattered to folks like them. And with that, he dashed through the brush, slashing branches and foliage alike.

In front of him, a woman stood surrounded by three foes. One, a bow-woman of some sort, another wielding what looked to be dual blands, and a man who appeared to be unarmed. Muttering a 'praise the sun', Solaire loudly cleared his throat, causing four heads to turn.

"What's the term he used…?" He muttered, before going 'ah-ha!' quietly to himself. "Foul 'gankers'!" He said rather awkwardly. "Halt your debauchery immediately, for I, Solaire of Astora, Adherent of Sunlight, am here to put an end to whatever fiendishness you lot are brewing!"

 **A/N: Cheers, friends. It's been a while, but I'm back, and hopefully here to stay. RnR if you don't mind, and I'll see you in the next chapter.**


	2. 2

The three assailants looked between both their victim and the Warrior of Sunlight. Though, to be fair, he felt like much more of a Darkmoon Blade than a worshipper of the Sun, but it was probably too late to change covenants now. Raising his sword, and letting out a battle cry that would have made Siegmeyer proud, Solaire leapt at the green haired woman, who quickly recovered from her pure state of shock. She raised her blades to block his own, and steel met alloy, with sparks flying. With his father size and inhuman strength, Solaire expected the girl to crumple under the pressure, yet was surprised, and he daresay impressed, to find that she easily matched his strength.

"Oh my!" He said, some of the previously lost joviality returning to his voice. A good fight always took his mind off things. A sharp kick to the chest removed any air previously stored in there, and he soon found himself on his ass, blocking a series of rapid strikes with his shield. Sounds of combat, as the other two engaged the original victim, filled the air. They were outnumbered, but Solaire would sooner cast aside his iron helmet and study sorceries than back down from a fight! Pushing off his combatant, he leapt to his feet once more. In one swift motion, he dropped his sword and grasped at the talisman at his hip. Raising his arm and with a mighty shout, he unleashed a spear of lightning- no, a spear of Sunlight at his foe, who yelped and attempted to dodge. While it wasn't a direct hit, the golden bolt burning a chunk of her clothes, and revealing some sort of hidden magical barrier surrounding her person.

Another miracle user? Interesting… not that Solaire felt threatened! He just hoped his comrade could hold her own…

After some scouring and some painful first steps, Chosen managed to locate the hunk of steel that was his old sword. It's Chaos infusion seemed to have worn off, given that he could grasp the blade and not burn his hand off. It's a shame, but he had other methods of boosting his blades ferocity. Well, it couldn't really be considered a blade anymore. More a hunk of metal and ash, but it would make for a fine bludgeoning tool (Somewhere in Drangleic, a certain knight clad in black had a brilliant idea for a 'sword'. Many would question his sanity, but eventually it served as a painful reminder to many Undead that getting crushed hurt much more than getting stabbed).

Glancing at his Mask of the Father, Chosen was struck with an idea. He didn't want to leave it behind in this strange land… but it was warped and he couldn't exactly bend the metal back into shape, no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he wrapped the cloth part around his off hand, and tested its weight. Humming in delight, he strapped it to his hip. Anything could be a weapon if enough force was applied, and it was just big enough to be a decent parrying tool. Many Invaders and Guilty that he'd fought over the… however long he was in Lordran, used things like caestus, small leather shields, daggers, or even their bare hands to parry attacks, so why couldn't he use his mask, hmm?

Following the path Solaire had brutally carved through the brush, Chosen's ears were assaulted with the sounds of blades crashing, small explosions, and big explosions. Oh Gods, what did he get them into this time?

Oh. Gankers!

Well, he assumed they were gankers, at least. Solaire was locked in combat, fighting off a man who utilized kicks and a woman who alternated between firing some sort of projectile from her blades, and using said blades. What she was using, he had no idea, but he hoped he could strip those green beauties from her corpse when this was all done. Maybe he could take that guys legs, too.

Over to the side, two women were locked in combat, dancing around glass arrows and bursts of flame combined with unnaturally strong gusts of wind, originating from some sort of staff. The one with the staff seemed tired, and wore a neat little cloak that looked just adorable on her! The other looked more angry than anything, and an aura of hatred and anger emanated from her. She, along with everyone who wasn't a Warrior of Sunlight appeared to have some version of Great Magic Barrier surrounding their person.

He didn't know who was one who's side, so Chosen did something he'd done many times before:

Beat the shit out of the fucker who was fighting his friend. Or in this case, fuckers.

With a mighty jumping attack, and a guttural growl to go along with it, he managed to catch the silver haired fiend unawares! The poor lad barely had a chance to scream before he was pancaked between the ground and the slab of metal that was Chosen's sword. Solaire let out a jolly 'hah ha!' before he redoubled his efforts on the green haired fiend, though most of his attacks missed, not for a lack of trying.

Actually, something seemed off. Was he seeing double? His eyes couldn't focus on her for long, and it was beginning to give him a headache-

Wham!

Silver had just about shattered his skull with a mighty kick that rattled his brain, and sent him flying. As Chosen fought to regain his bearings, he looked up to see Andre- wait no, Silver? He couldn't tell! Both shared that same disturbing enjoyment they received from kicking someone's skull in, it seemed.

He wasn't ready for the next kick, nor the one after that. Unarmed fighters scarred Chosen the most, due to them not actually needed a weapon. He couldn't disarm them, nor could he swing fast enough to knock them around. Two, three, four blows were dealt to his metal chestplate, and he was forever thankful that it didn't crumple there and then! On the fifth kick, he dropped his blade, and on the sixth, he grabbed one of the legs. It seemed like Silver was expecting as much, because his other swung around and cracked across his jaw.

Dazed and confused, he could only stare at the dropkick aimed at his head, and grunt in pain as he was dropped to the ground.

Solaire wasn't faring much better, and blood seemed to be leaking out of his chest, staining the sun adorned on his chestpiece. He looked tired, and his shield was peppered with holes. The cloaked woman was the only one still giving their all. Solaire and Chosen were Undead. Death was a minor setback at best, and a ticket to insanity at its worst. Chosen guessed that she was either a fresh corpse, or one who wasn't cursed.

A pair of hands grabbed the Sunlight Warrior's helmet, and slammed it onto their knee, a move which jarred Solaire and caused him to drop both his sword and shield. Green held a blade to his throat, and Silver grabbed Chosen's neck, ready to snap it at a moment's notice. The girl in the cloak looked ready to run, and Chosen closed his eyes, prepared himself for the inevitable.

Burp. "Am I interrupting something here?" A slurred, new voice said, oozing confidence. Cracking an eye open, a caped man wielding both a badass scythe and an even more badass layer of stubble on his chin stood, relaxed as ever.

Then, Chosen felt his neck snap.


	3. 3

Crack!

The Chosen Undead grunted in pain as his body fell to the floor. By all means, he should have been dead, but killing someone who is already dead is harder than it seems. Still, he was out of commission. If the gargling to his side was any indication, Chosen assumed that Solaire had gotten his throat slit. That was one of the worst ways to die, in his opinion. Slowly feeling the life drain from your system, usually helpless to do anything because you still have a battle to fight.

While Chosen couldn't really see anything, being stuck on the ground unable to move, Solaire had indeed not given up just yet. His inhuman strength, fueled by the Souls of his fallen foes and his determination to save his friend, pushed him back up and into the fray. The new arrival, a man who reeked of booze and emanated death, clashed with the assailants. And all Chosen could do was listen to the carnage going on around him. He wanted more than anything to hop back up on his feet, disembowel that silver haired fiend, and bathe in his innards-

Ah, bad thoughts! He may have missed fighting, living, and essentially doing anything that doesn't involve burning alive, but that was no excuse to let his bloodlust take over. Oh well, all Chosen could do is wait. Sit and wait. Gods, he hated waiting…

The air shimmered, and it took form once more.

 **X**

 _Trees. Green. So much green. Perhaps if things were different, it would take the time to appreciate such beauty. It might have cared that this place held such a stark contrast from where it normally found itself._

 _It's body was still coated in a sheen of red and black, however. This was not it's world. The urges still filled it's mind, and it had no reason not to listen to them._

 _The Forlorn brandished it's blade once more, and began it's long trek. Blood was the only thing it craved, the only thing it needed, the only thing it sought. The only thing it wanted._

 _Anything else had been boiled away long ago._

 **X**

"There you go, there you go! Easy does it!"

Chosen had never been much of a believer in the various miracles utilized by the Gods and their various followers. He preferred a decent blade, maybe a shield, and his own prowess as opposed to blind faith. But right now, he considered learning a miracle or two.

Solaire stood over him, gently praying and watching over his arguably closest friend. He could hear Chosen's bones snapping back into place, and it drew a few disgusted looks from their new 'companions'. The drunkard had, in the end, been enough to scare away those dastardly gankers, but they'd got their fair share of licks in. Solaire had barely managed to stop himself from bleeding out, but his talisman and his devotion could only do so much. He'd need to rest before casting anything else, so he prayed that they would stumble across an estus flask of some sort, and soon, though he doubted they would.

Deciding to let his friend, and himself, rest, Solaire approached the other two of their impromptu party. "Greetings! I am Solaire of Astora, Warrior and Adherent of Sunlight!" He said, before praising the sun himself. Even here, in this strange land, it still shined as bright as ever, if not brighter. It gave him hope, that maybe, someday, he'd find his own sun…

"Warrior of Sunlight…?" The drunkard said, with a slightly amused smirk plastered on his face. "Name's Qrow. Thanks for the help, I guess. I was a little preoccupied with some other shit." He said, patting Solaire's shoulder. The woman huffed in annoyance. "And this is Amber. She's grateful too."

"To them, maybe! Where were you, Qrow?! I could have died, and then she would've been in possession on the-" Amber's cries of annoyance and anger were hushed as Qrow shoved his hand over her mouth, and let out an annoyed sigh.

"Sorry, sorry. You're right. Had to deal with a few things before hand, okay? But it all worked out, didn't it? No need to get your panties in a bunch. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that, right?"

"My horse is gone you bastard!"

"Bah, casualties of war."

Sensing that he was no longer a part of the conversation, Solaire turned his attention elsewhere. He'd long since sheathed his own blade, and his shield was strapped to his back, but he noticed that Chosen's, er, 'blade' was still lying discarded on the ground. Hefting the surprisingly heavy slab of blackened metal, he felt a strange sense of unworthiness. Sure, it was just a sword, but at the same time, it was the sword that had slain Lord Gwyn, rest his soul.

The more he thought about it, the more unworthy he felt, being in the presence of Chosen. He knew that his friend would probably blush at the mere mention of his God slaying ability, and would most likely reject any special treatment sent his way, but Solaire couldn't help but feel proud and small at the sight of the man.

And he felt angry beyond belief.

Solaire was well aware that Chosen was meant to become the next Lord of Sunlight after Lord Gwyn was slain, but to his horror, this was not the case. Chosen was used merely as fuel to preserve an age that had long since outlived its welcome, and to think that he'd fought, no, they'd all fought to bring about change, and yet they'd been duped! Those damn serpents… damn them to Izalith and back!

Solaire didn't need to be in that damned Kiln to know that his friend was no Lord of Cinder.

Regardless, Chosen had somehow escaped the Kiln, and Solaire would make sure no harm would come to his friend. No irreversible harm, that is. Chosen would likely never back down from a fight, and Solaire probably wouldn't be able to stop him. But anything that wanted to harm his friend would have to go through Solaire too!

Solaire plopped down next to Chosen, and laid the slab of a blade down next to him. Placing a gentle hand on Chosen's shoulder, Solaire heaved a sigh of relief. "Well friend, I've got the distinct feeling that this won't be our last battle in this new land. But I'll be with you every step of the way." He declared, grinning under his bucket helmet.

Chosen gave his friend a lazy smile and nodded in appreciation.

Words were not needed.


	4. 4

Blake had no idea what she was looking at.

As if turning her back on the Fang, and more importantly Adam, wasn't hard enough, now she was locked in a life-or-death clash with two red-hued assholes who were trying to kill not only her, but this other asshole who'd somehow found his way onto the train. The guy, and he was a he if the grunts and shouts of pain were anything to go by, looked weird, to say the least, clad in some ratty looking cloak over what looked to be a set of black platemail. His sword, an odd looking blue sword that shot friggin' lasers was paired with a parma of some sort, which had certainly seen better days.

Also, the guy was smouldering. Literally smouldering!

Still, their redish attackers were certainly not any less weird, one being clad in what looked like stone armor and wielding dual crossbows, and the other a man garbed in a pristine set of robes, utilized a sword that shot giant blue projectiles and a semi-standard shield.

All in all, this day had turned out pretty terrible.

Blake had the unfortunate luck of dealing with the crossbow toting maniac, who's dual bows shot three bolts at a time. All her attacks seemed to bounce right off its damned stone-plated armor, and she wondered how the things spine hadn't been crushed yet.

It clumsily rolled to dodge another strike, before firing at one of her many clones, this one exploding next to the stone monster, knocking it off its feet. As she moved in to deal the hopefully finishing blow, a panicked 'Duck!' was shouted from behind her, and she instinctively dropped to the floor. A split second later, a giant swirl of blue flew over Blake's head, taking it's time.

The stone-thing, however, wasn't so lucky. It happened to stand up at just the wrong time, and took the brunt of the blow. It staggered back a few feet…

...and right off the side of the train.

Blake hopped to her feet, and turned to face the other two. Cloak-Guy looked ready to dodge, and Robes glanced between his two opponents. His shield, dropped to the floor, and he grasped what appeared to be a crystal of some sort, colored black and white. It didn't exactly resemble dust, and the man's face lit up in frustration when he squeezed it, as if he was expecting something to happen.

Cloak-Guy was also somewhat surprised, and before he or Blake could react, Robes grabbed his shield and leapt off the train.

Blake had yet to relax, however. Cloak-Guy was a complete unknown, and she did technically just commit an act of terror with a known terrorist. Still though, he appeared relaxed. Relaxed enough to buckle his sword onto his back, and clip his shield next to it. She gave him the courtesy of not pointing the gun or sword part of her cleaver at him, but did not put Gambol Shroud away.

"Whew! What a fight, huh? I've never seen a sword that could cast spells before! Sheesh, glad that's over. And thanks for the assist!" He said. The man's voice was awkward and somewhat nervous, and made her think that he wasn't used to talking very much. Good. Neither was she.

"My name's Ward, by the way! Fallen Knight Ward!"

"Blake Bellodana."

 **X**

Though Qrow had given Chosen an odd look when Solaire introduced the two, it didn't last. The road was long, and they simply didn't have the time or energy to debate why he had such an odd name. Besides, even Qrow could recognize that making fun of the man who'd done his job when he couldn't would be a dick move.

Eventually, they were forced to stop and make camp. The nearest village, according to both Amber and Qrow, was another five hours on foot. While the two Undead could theoretically go on forever, no matter how tired they might get, they still agreed to rest with their new companions. Solaire and Chosen weren't entirely sure if the others knew about their inflictions, but they decided that it wasn't relevant information.

The tensions were high, however. While the two duos weren't necessarily enemies, they certainly weren't friends. Solaire felt as though he'd made a rather rushed decision in helping the woman who was being 'ganked', though he didn't regret it. Something about that trio of attackers rubbed him the wrong way, and he felt as though this wasn't going to be the last time he'd see them.

While Qrow and Amber were discussing something that the two Undead didn't really care enough to listen to, Solaire once again tended to Chosen's various burns. The power of Miracles certainly helped with the pain and some of the weaker burns, but Chosen's skin was still fused to his armor, and his face still terribly burned. The Kiln left its mark on the young man, and it would likely remain there until he Hollowed and then slain. He didn't mind though. Appearances never meant much to him, and he rarely had time to gaze upon himself. Still, he felt stiff pretty much everywhere, and just like the Kiln, pain was a constant. It wasn't nearly as intense as the fires of old had been, but he could feel it nonetheless.

Grasping the remnants of his mask, Chosen sighed. He missed the old days, when all he had to worry about was slaying the next beast, or saving up for that cool piece of armor, or finding enough titanite to reinforce his Zweihander, or searching for the sinner to punish, or wondering if Gwyndolin could see him through the fog gate, or wondering if such thoughts about the 'Goddess' were considered heresy-

If it was possible, his face would've heated up. "Is everything alright, friend?" Solaire asked, sounding confused. His helmet had, for the first time in probably years, left his face. It sat on a rock, proudly displaying its feather and steel in all its glory. His face was Un-Hollowed, thankfully, as their 'comrades' might react poorly to a Hollow, and his jaw was lined with a fresh layer of stubble. Undead hair growth was always a strange subject, but it seemed like Solaire was one of the rare few who experienced some form of hair growth.

Chosen shook his head. Nothing was technically wrong, nothing that he would ever have to worry about. The fact that the moon was destroyed pretty much crushed any hope that remained in his system that they were anywhere close to Lordran, let alone the same world. His possible sexuality crisis could be avoided, thank the Gods, but he really had no idea what to do with his time anymore. Sure, he could assume that his time in the Kiln might affect the way he Hollows, possibly granting him more time, but what about Solaire? He'd certainly lose his mind soon enough, given how he gave up on his quest for his own sun. Did the Sunlight Warriors even have a presence here?

He didn't know. Honestly, Chosen didn't know what life was like outside of places like Lordran, Ariamis, or Oolacile. What if there were no giant, extremely scary and honestly somewhat ridiculous monsters to slay? The thought made him shudder. Fighting was the only thing he was good at.

Solaire seemed to pick up on what he was thinking, at least somewhat. "Don't worry, friend." he whispered, giving him a slight smile. "Warriors like us will always have a place. Even if there's nothing to fight, I'm sure both you and I have learned something about smithing after using those boxes for so long!" he said, laughing.

Chosen nodded, giving a smile of his own. They had plenty of time, regardless.

Or so they thought.

Solaire's chest exploded in a mess of blood, bone, and armor, as a claymore was shoved through the back and out the front. He was kicked off and landed on the ground, and Chosen leapt to his feet, eyeing the new opponent.

His heart, if it was even still beating, stopped in its tracks.

A blade of the Darkmoon, clad in the signature platemail worn by lowly knights, stood before him, flanked by an Easterner using a great club and a sorcerer of some sort.

None looked too happy to see their former comrade.

 **A/N: Sorry for the updates. I just realized that some of the things I do in Google Docs, like certain linebreaks and italicized text are carrying over when I upload the documents. I'm terrible sorry about this, and will be more conscious of it in the future.**

 **Also,** **SolidShinji104, that's a pretty accurate statement. I'd like for there to be a healthy mix of serious themes and comedic moments for our cast to experience.**

 **Next chapter will be soon. Peace!**


	5. 5

Chosen knew what was about to happen the second he saw that damned Tin Crystallization Catalyst. He'd taken dozens of Dark Beads to the chest, and each and every single time they blown off limbs, armor, shields, and chunks of flesh from his body. It felt as if time had slowed, as Chosen roared, leaping to his feet. Every cell in his dead body yearned to rip that sorcerer apart before he did the same to him. A small part of him despised man like this, who hid behind such spells. Most of the time, he never had a chance to fight back against his invaders or sinners he invaded. If he managed to dodge, they'd simply fire it again and again, until it eventually blew off so many parts of his body that he either died or couldn't fight back.

Never again.

As the sorceress' hand raised the staff, her eyes widened as a mass of charred flesh and metal flew towards her at an alarming rate, and slammed into her. Dark Bead was still shot, but it wasn't in the direction she intended. The claymore wielding knight, had he not been a phantom, would have screamed in agony as his arm was blown completely off, and the blue hued appendage fell to the ground along with the shield it grasped. He likely wouldn't die, but would hopefully be out of commision.

Chosen ripped the the catalyst from her hand, and gave her a solid headbutt. Her head wobbled for a second before he pushed her away, causing her to fall to the ground. A blade clumsily bounced off his armored back, causing Chosen to instinctively roll to the side, facing his new attacker. The one-armed knight stood defiantly, ready to do battle despite his handicap. The Easterner was fighting a now-active Solaire, who'd recovered quite quickly, considering that there was still a hole in his chest.

The catalyst had lost its blue hue, and remained in Chosen's hand. Grasping it with both hands, he jabbed it forward, starting their impromptu duel. The knight barely managed to evade his strike with a roll, and although it was a rather clumsy and slow one, Chosen couldn't help but be impressed that his opponent even pulled it off.

Solaire dodged a kick aimed for his head, and slashed at his foe, cutting through cloth and chainmail. Fighting phantoms of any kind, Solaire found, could be quite unnerving. They never bled, never grunted, never spoke, never made any noise of any kind. His shield shook as it blocked a relentless flurry of crazed swings from his foes' club. It could be quite creepy at times. Solaire said many things and made plenty of noise whenever he was in the form of a phantom, yet no one could hear him. It could be quite frustrating at times, trying to warn his comrades of danger, yet being unable to communicate with words. 

Solaire's shield parried a blow, and his sword was soon shoved into the chest of his foe. It probably wouldn't kill the bastard, but he took the few seconds it granted him to take stock of the situation. The sorceress was unconscious, which was a feat Solaire didn't know was possible. Chosen was fighting the now one-armed knight, who was putting up a surprising amount of resistance, and Qrow and Amber were nowhere to be found. This brought a frown to his face. Cowards, the both of them!

The Easterner slammed his club into Solaire's chest, knocking the Warrior of Sunlight from his thoughts. Damn Gankers…

 **X**

"Shouldn't we, I dunno… help them?!"

Qrow spared a glance at Amber, and scowled. She probably didn't understand the severity of the situation, not that he blamed her. He wondered if maybe she _over_ estimated her strength, which might've been the reason she nearly lost a fight to those three in the first place.

"No, we don't know those guys or their motives. Besides, those three… things weren't exactly interested in us. Fuckin' weirdos…" he said, referring to both the attackers and the duo who had helped them. The last day or so has filled Qrow with so much unease, he'd be glad to be back to Beacon, Vale, somewhere he could sit down and drink. Hell, drinks were optional. Just somewhere relatively normal! Not that his Semblance, or even Ozpin, allowed these few and far-between moments of peace to last.

"Y-yeah, but… they helped us!" Amber protested, crossing her arms and stopping in her tracks. Qrow gave her an intense glare that could melt steel, but Amber held her ground.

"Look, my job is to get you out of the Badlands, and back to Beacon! Not to help people we barely know! What if they're spies, or crazy axe murderers, or cultists?! You'd not only be in danger, but I would be too!" Qrow growled, poking her shoulder. She swatted his hand away and scoffed.

"What, are you _scared_ , Qrow? C'mon, where's the cocky 'veteran Huntsman', hmm? Is he in there somewhere?" Amber snarled, and Qrow scowled as well. What would be easier, and what would keep them safer… while 'Chosen' and 'Solaire' had yet to turn on them, he still didn't trust them. And if those two couldn't defeat those three blue fuckers, who's to say that they wouldn't Pursue Amber and himself?

And he sorta owed them, too. If they didn't step in when they did, Amber might've met her end at the hands of those three. Qrow was a lot of things, but was he the kind of man to let a debt as big as _that_ go unpaid…?

 **X**

It turns out that one-handed knights using claymores can still parry just as effectively, judging from the large blade in his chest. He also found out that the claymore was infused with lightning. Chosen was finally reminded of just how much lightning ripostes _hurt_. Ugh, he didn't even feel like getting up. What was the point anyways, hmm? Everything he stood for was _now trying to kill him_ , which also meant that his crush had absolutely zero chance of being requited! ...not that he ever really had a chance, considering the whole 'if you cross the fogwall you're a heretic' thing. Chosen could obviously see the loathing these three had for him in their eyes, and he wondered exactly what it was that he'd done-

Oh. _Oh…_

Getting up, with renewed vigor, Chosen leapt at the knight, catching him by surprise. Chosen saw the swing coming, and he used his Father's Mask-turned-parrying-tool to deflect the the blow. Instead of following up, he wrenched the claymore from his grasp, tossing it aside.

The knight prepared for some sort of strike, and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to come. After a second or two, it never came.

He cracked an eye open, and fear was replaced with confusion. The heretic held a hand up, as if to tell him 'wait', as he coughed into the mask he'd used to parry his blade. The coughing continued for a solid minute, and the knight contemplated running for his blade, when his patience was rewarded.

It was barely audible, lower than a whisper, but he heard it nonetheless. The Chosen Undead was doing something he hadn't done in the longest time, longer than he could remember.

He spoke.

"Tell… tell Lord G-Gwyndolin…" he said, coughing some more. The Easterner and Solaire had stopped fighting, if only because of the shock at seeing the legendary, or infamous, Chosen Undead, known for his unbreakable silence, _break_ said silence.

"Tell L-Lord Gwyndolin t-that it w-was an accident." he rasped, before thinking for a second longer. "A-and… a-a-and that I'm s-single." he added, nodding to himself.

"Alright boys, don't worry! The calvary is… here…" Qrow burst through the brush, with Amber in tow, before coming upon the scene.

No one knew what to do, say, or think. Were Chosen's words enough to stop the fight? Was Qrow's arrival going to turn the tide? Would Gwyndolin talk to him?

The Sorceress woke up to the strange scene, and having not witness the last five minutes, tackled Chosen to the ground.

Chaos ensued.


	6. 6

**A/N:**

 **Lots of POV shifts in this chapter. I'm experimenting with a few plot arcs I had in mind for this story, so I hope you enjoy!**

X

"So you're saying you have no idea who or what those things were?"

Qrow, Amber, and the two Undead sat at their old campsite, catching their breath. The clash between them and the Darkmoon Blades had been short, but a tough one, and the sorceress had been feisty, even without her catalyst. Chosen was just glad that it was over, and glad that he could go back to never speaking again.

"Yes, Sir Qrow! They attacked us out of nowhere, those fiends! I'm glad your restroom break ended when it did, or I'm afraid we would have been overtaken!" Solaire said, while Qrow's face reddened slightly. To save face, he'd said that Amber needed to 'heed nature's call' and was too scared to go alone. From her glare, he could tell he would regret such a decision.

Chosen grunted in agreement. They too, had fibbed, by saying they knew nothing of their assailants. Considering that they had no idea what a Darkmoon Blade looked like, and that their moon was entirely different, both Chosen and Solaire agreed that explaining such things would take too much time, and perhaps would be a fruitless endeavor.

One thing was certain for Chosen, however. Gwyndolin wanted him dead or captured. And if he had to hazard a guess, it was because he'd left the Kiln. Without him, the Age of Fire would be awfully short lived. This begged the question; did he wish to return?

He had no idea.

If there was some way to fuel the Kiln without him, or any other Undead for that matter, that would be preferable to burning for all of eternity. But to know that he was damning a world to darkness… and his world at that, it bugged him. More than he thought it would. More than it should, after everything it had taken from him.

He shrugged to himself as the conversation continued. They paid him no mind as he cleaned the claymore he'd acquired. It had remained after those three had disappeared, and he paid it no mind. Kirk had left him his shield once the Knight of Thorns had been defeated, and this was no different. The blade was solid, like most from his 'homeland', and would last him while, hopefully long enough until he could sort out his own Zweihander. If he had his Box, finding a replacement weapon wouldn't be too difficult, though he figured it would make things too easy.

Gods forbid anything is too easy.

"-next town over shouldn't be too far. I'll take the first watch for tonight, alright?" Qrow said, receiving a nod from Solaire. Amber retreated to her tent, and the Huntsman plopped himself down next to the fire.

Solaire took a spot underneath a tree, and lied down. He didn't exactly trust this Qrow fellow, though he was a bit tired. Undead didn't _need_ sleep necessarily, but that didn't mean that they didn't enjoy some good shuteye every once in a while though.

Still, the idea that Lord Gwyndolin and his legion of Darkmoon Blades wanted his friend, and by proxy himself, dead shook him somewhat. He could barely handle one phantom, what if Chosen had been incapacitated? Or if there had been four of them instead of three?

Was Solaire too weak to defend the only person in his life that he cared about?

The thought sent shivers down his spine, and he crushed them like he'd crush a hollow in the Burg. Still though…

He glanced at his friend, who simply stared into the fire, ignoring Qrow who sat not five feet away. He wouldn't fail him again. Not like he'd failed him tonight, or the day before. Not like he'd failed himself.

Solaire fell into a fitful sleep.

 **X**

When Ward had stepped into 'the Club', as it was called, he really didn't know what to expect. After Blake and Ward had arrived at Vale, she'd brought them to a bookshop, 'Tukson's Book Trade'. While Ward had been initially excited at the mere prospect of getting new books and learning new spells, she had quickly informed that, sadly enough, they weren't there to buy books.

She'd received some transcripts for something, Ward wasn't really paying attention, and if asked if there was anything they could do for him, he'd simply asked for some work.

And that's how he ended up here. Applying to be 'muscle' for some 'operation'. Apparently, this was the place to go if one needed cheap labor, cheap protection, and just about cheap anything.

"Hey! You! With the weird bedsheet!" a rather gruff voice called out, causing Ward to turn. A large, beefy looking fellow with a nice suit and some fashionable sunglasses was bellowing at him. "You 'ere for the 'tryouts'?" he asked.

Ward had long about learned that saying 'yes' to things usually granted him weapons and armor, so he nodded, and the man politely directed him towards a door towards the back, labeled 'VIP'. He got a few looks, most notably from a pair of beautiful twins, though most people just ignored him.

Behind the doors was a large room filled with bodies of the living variety, most looking either well dressed or geared for battle like himself. They mostly milled about, talking with each other, showing off their weapons, or taking part in various drinking games. Ward found such unprofessionalism to be deplorable, yet he wouldn't mind a stiff drink now, and would likely not deny one of he was offered. A few gave him and his sword a few odd looks, but none approached.

The chatter and banter was cut off when a new man entered the room from the opposite side of Ward. He was rather flamboyant to say the least, and Ward envied the rather handsome head of hair atop those shoulders. The hat was a nice touch too! The cane he used was either a weapon or a trinket, considering the lack of a limp.

"Alright, alright. I can tell you're all eager to get this over with, and trust me, as much as I'd _love_ to spend all night in this room with you _wonderful_ people, I've got a tight schedule to keep. Get into a line, and we'll proceed from there. If you're not picked, better luck next time."

 **X**

Reggie Morado was having a rather rough day today.

Being blasted out of the air by bandits would usually be enough to ruin someone's week, but nearly being eaten by Grimm after a forced landing was just the icing on top of his shit-flavored cake. He'd honestly been ready to use the handgun strapped to his flight suit to either fend off the Grimm, bandits, or maybe even blow his brains out if things looked a little too FUBAR. Considering the state of his blood-soaked leg, he would've probably gone with the third option.

Luckily for him, the Brothers seemed at least somewhat merciful, and someone had come to his rescue almost immediately. She seemed nice enough, though certainly dressed weird. Her, uh, 'armor', if he could even call it that, looked like someone had made a suit of platemail out of ice dust, and she was covered from head to toe. He could only tell that she was in fact a 'she' from the voice, or perhaps they were just extremely feminine. He decided on a solid 'they', just in case.

They'd plowed through the Grimm resistance that surrounded Reggie's airship using a lance and shield that matched their armor, and he was honestly amazed by her brutality. He unloaded at anything that they didn't notice, but he could mostly only sit back and watch the spectacle. 'Probably a Huntress…' he mused to himself.

The pilot went through the Bullhead one more time, before adjusting his helmet. He'd originally been on a supply run, from Vale to Bullmar, one of the villages within the Kingdom of Vale. Hopefully he could gather a team together to get his cargo before it was seized by bandits, though he could guess how that would end up.

Grumbling to himself, he accepted the shoulder of the Huntress, and she helped him away from the wreckage. This would cost him a fortune if it wasn't covered by his insurance. What was their policy on bandit attacks again?

Ah, he should probably worry about getting to Bullmar alive first, shouldn't he? "T-thanks, by the way!" Reggie said to his new pal, giving them a smirk. "The name's Reggie Morado, professional pilot," he said, before glancing back, "...well, I used to be. Heh."

They simply tilted their head. "...I have no idea what a 'pilot' is, but you seem pretty bad at it."

Reggie flushed under his helmet, and tried to think of a comeback, though he barely mustered out a 'hey!' before he was shoved to the ground violently. He landed badly on his injured leg, and felt something give way. Pain wracked his body as his leg finally snapped, and blood sprayed from his wound.

His vision, while hazy, still gave him a good view of his savior doing battle with a strange individual coated in a strange, red aura.

Reggie Morado passed out, not knowing if he'd ever wake up again.

 **X**

"Why yes! Me and my nephew were on our way to Vale, and we happened upon your camp. It was under attack by a, uh, Geist? Sorry, I'm not exactly well versed with the creatures of Grimm." the man said, blushing slightly. He was blonde, with a thick layer of stubble upon his face. His eyes were a dull brown, though they shined with life and purpose. His hand rested on the shoulder of his supposed nephew, who may have been as tall, if not taller, than the Uncle in question, yet he stood hunched and shy, looking to the dirt.

"I'm Oscar Astora, by the way! This is my nephew, Jaune Arc. Don't mind him, he's just a bit shy. His old man keeps telling him to be confident, but I don't think the lessons are sticking!" Oscar jovial said, giving his nephew a loving pat on the back, eliciting a yelp from the younger man.

The man they were speaking too hid behind a mask, both physical and emotional. His hair, a fiery red, was on full display, along with a peculiar pair of horns. His mouth was set in a firm line, and he seemed like the type of man who rarely dabbled in nonsense. All business.

"I'm Adam Taurus." he simply said, extending a hand for Oscar to shake.

 **X**

 **A/N: N-Nani?! Adam, Oscar… and Jaune?! What?! "Dudchan," you say, "you've lost your marbles!"**

 **Yes, young reader. Yes I have. But give me a chance, okay?**

 **Thanks for all the support, guys! And sorry for the wait!**

 **Please RnR!**


	7. 7

**A/N: I'm back.**

Chosen didn't know exactly when he'd passed out, but he certainly wished it hadn't happened.

Qrow and Amber had abandoned them in the middle of the night, stealing themselves away like thieves. Saying this was a surprise would be a lie, however. They owed the two Undead nothing, and vise versa. Still, a goodbye would've been appropriate, no? They were all respectable warriors, and Solaire in particular seemed rather hurt.

"Was it something we said? Erm, sorry, was it something _I_ said? Perhaps they found my devotion to sunlight revolting…?" Solaire muttered, hacking away at overgrown bushes in their way. The two had made some progress since the morning had arrived, and if the Huntsman was telling the truth, then a town should be on the horizon.

Solaire seemed apprehensive about this as well, having experienced what kind of welcome Undead received in any sort of civilized place. He wondered if they'd be lynched or stabbed to death first.

A sideways glance towards Chosen revealed nothing about what the man, that great, great, _godlike_ man was thinking… perhaps he wasn't nervous, or perhaps he was coming up with a plan, in case things went awry?

 _That beautiful, pale face… those alluring snake legs… by the gods, I am smitten…_

Of course, Solaire had no way of knowing this, and the admirable faith build continued to walk on, believing that his hero was going to save the duo.

"Chosen? Is it just me, or are those walls rather impressive in their girth and height."

The town walls were _huge_. Sure, not Anor Londo huge, but to be fair, what could really match the city of the gods? Certainly not some backwater town? Sentries lined the top, but there was no such resistance stopping them from entering. It seemed to be buzzing with activity, yet no odd glances were exchanged with the duo. A few gawked at Chosen's burns, and Solaire felt the need to defend his friend.

 _'By the Brothers, his face-!'_

 _'Are there any doctors in town-?'_

 _'Kids, cover your eyes-!'_

The two had no idea where they were really going, but a nearby bazaar caught their attention. The mass of tents and people seemed odd to the two. When was the last time either of them had seen such a group of sentient individuals, doing anything besides trying to murder each other?

"Oi! Gimme my sword back, asshole! Or I'll kill you! I'll slit your throat!"

"Well, that was certainly short lived." Solaire remarked, attempting to get a better look at the commotion. A rather tall figure, adorned in golden armor with a dented hat sat, tugging at a man's arm. Chosen recognized the chest piece and the legs as those belonging to Ornstien, the legendary Dragonslayer. His sword seemed rather plain too, but perhaps it held sentimental value.

The sight of such armor gave Chosen and Solaire a shiver down their spines, however. Perhaps this was another invader? The shield upon his back seemed somewhat plain as well, if not a bit large.

A few large, thuggish types stepped into the ring, and grabbed the golden-clad man. "Hey! Get your hands off me! Hey!" He struggled against their grip, and one slammed a meaty fist into his face, shutting him up.

"This blade is quite a find! Unique, sharp, and hard as a rock too! Is this a relic from the Great War? Perhaps your grand pappys?" A sly looking fellow commented, bringing the blade to the restrained man's throat.

"Halt, foul gankers! Leave this poor fellow alone!" Solaire said, leaping into the circle, sword drawn. Chosen sighed, and followed, drawing his claymore.

"Ah great, a faith build…" The man muttered, struggling against the hands holding him. "I'm doomed, aren't I?"

"Stay out of this! This fiend tried to swindle a few goods from my shop! He's a thief, and we deal with thieves in a very special way around these parts!" The merchant shouted, pointing the sword towards the Knight of Sunlight, though his grip on it was shaky at best. One of the beefcakes let go of the Ornstein-cosplayer, and brandished an axe of some sort.

Solaire was the first to strike, letting loose a lightning bolt that struck the man square in the chest. The crowd gasped in surprise, unfamiliar with the sight of such holy power! "Is that his semblance?!" one gasped. That word again, Chosen remarked. Semblance. He rushed past his comrade and slammed his blade into his shoulder, surprised to see no blood. An aura of sorts, one might say. The thug grunted, and seemingly ignored the two attacks, throwing the Chosen Undead off his feet with a bash to the face.

Stars and images of Gwyndolin lined his vison. "No!" Solaire shouted, rushing over to his friend to see if he was alright.

"Ugh, useless. Fucking useless." The restrained man muttered, before slamming his cone shaped helmet into the other thugs head, breaking free. He slipped a dagger from a sheath on his hip, and quickly rolled over to his newfound comrades.

"If you want something done…" he muttered, slipping off a ring, before sliding a new one in its place. An aura of red enveloped his being, and Chosen and Solaire gasped. A dark spirit! An invader! The ring upon his hand resembled that of a Hornet, and the two knew what was about to happen...

"...don't leave it to the casuals!"

...let the chain backstabbing begin!


End file.
